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Ichigo hasn't eaten since the Board of Directors banned him from entering Seireitei. He can feel his hunger gnawing at him, dizzyingly painful, impossible to ignore. He’s more gaunt than any vampire he’s seen before.
On the outskirts of the capital city, where the poor huddle together in huts made of wood and clay, he's an outsider. A monster. They see his pale skin and sharp teeth and either cower or chase him from their townships.
These humans don't want to be devoured, he understands. He doesn't want to feed from them either. Blood within the walls of Seireitei is humanely harvested from willing donors, and never enough that they cannot replenish themselves naturally. There, donors are celebrated, cherished for their subservient need to feed their vampire masters. They are given all the riches they desire in exchange for their offerings.
It's not a perfect system, especially not for lowly vampire clans who instead buy from blood banks, like he himself used to do, but it worked. It kept him fed.
And then he was banished.
Here, he's starving, and he can't bring himself to drink from an unwilling donor. He can imagine it: the horror clouding their eyes, the trembling of their limbs. Their pleas of mercy when all he needs is a simple sip from their neck. Just a single drop pulled onto his tongue, slipping down his throat.
His mouth waters at the thought, and that terrifies him.
District twenty-nine is the same as all the other human villages he's passed through since his exile. A mother screams at the sight of him and the evening crowd soon follows in a chorus of fear. Doors slam, shutters close; the streets are emptied before Ichigo can introduce himself and he's thankful these folks hadn't thought to arm themselves instead. Pitchforks barely make a dent in his skin, but his torn clothes are held together through strategically tied ribbons, stolen from an abandoned merchant's cart three nights ago.
He should keep moving, eventually he'll stumble upon a place friendly to disgraced members of the ruling class. However, he lingers, sniffs the air and tiptoes from one alley to another. The villagers sob within their huts, he can hear them easily despite their best attempts to hide, but they hardly pique his interest. The scent he's chasing isn't blood. It's something sweeter, something unknown.
Ichigo follows the trail until his feet take him to a storefront. An open sign displays itself under brightly painted lettering.
"A florist," he mumbles, unsure why he's being drawn here. Flowers have no use for a vampire. Peering through the open window at the rows of potted plants does little to enlighten him.
Beyond the shelving is a desk without an attendant. He wonders if they've scurried home, believing their bedroom safer than a store. It's naive, almost laughable. Vampires took their capital on a whim and the resistance humans mounted centuries ago showcased how easily mortals could be slaughtered. If Ichigo selects any one of these villagers for dinner, they'd be dead, drained into a corpse made of withered skin and broken bones.
And he wants to — he wants so desperately that his jaw aches, his stomach growling. A deep, unwavering craving burns from the inside like an inferno scorching him alive, searing his very soul until he thinks maybe —
Maybe —
Ichigo doesn't want to be a monster. He doesn't want to give in.
But maybe —
He pushes on the door and hates himself as it swings wide, unhindered by a lock or morals. The overhead bell rings a death knell upon his entrance.
The scent is maddening this close to the source. His breaths come heavy and fast, his steps quicken, heart hammering when his senses narrow onto an assortment of spiked foliage. It doesn't make sense. He survives on blood, nothing else.
He's never smelled anything sweeter. He wants, he wants , and surely a bite of plant is harmless. It can't scream as his teeth rip into its leaves.
Ichigo reaches out, fingers hovering above an extended stem. No one will mourn if a flower dies. This death means nothing.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice says from behind and Ichigo startles forward, catching himself on the table and steadying himself before any pot has the chance to fall. The effort it takes to peel his gaze away from the plant sends sweat dripping down his cheek.
When he turns, the man chuckles, a sharp, toothy grin sketching into a lopsided sneer. "I didn't think it would work."
Ichigo slides sideways, putting an arm's length between them. He can barely discern a presence beneath the potent odor, but he's there, tangy and full of life. A human. Not a threat.
His blue, terrible eyes tell a different story.
"Didn't think what would work?" Ichigo asks. His claws flex, ready, and the man notices, arrogance undisguised and flaunting itself within every inch of his wide, easy stance. He doesn’t care that he’s facing off against a vampire. He wears a pair of slacks and an apron, no weapon save for a nearby trowel, and Ichigo has never seen a human look so powerful.
"The lure," he says, pointing to the flower, then at the corner of his mouth. "You fucks never leave the city. I grew a fucking wrinkle waiting for one of you to waltz your ass over here."
There's no visible flaw besides a long scar trailing down from one ear, even when Ichigo squints at his face. He's stupidly handsome for a madman.
He looks back at the plant, resisting the aroma it wafts towards him through waning willpower. "A lure?"
"It's called a sundew," he explains, fucking ecstatic to spill his master plan. "Carnivorous plant, attracts all sorts of prey. Usually insects." He leans back into view, lips pulled wide and mean and too happy. So heinously joyous, Ichigo can't look away from him either. "Think vampires evolved from bugs? I bet it was a mosquito. It makes perfect sense, yeah? You're all dumbass bloodsuckers."
His focus is shot. Hazy from the flower, overwhelmed by a human standing taller, more cocksure than the rest of his species. "Who are you?" The words feel tacky, sticking on the sudden dryness of his gums. "What do you want?"
"I'm Grimmjow," he says, stepping closer, invading the air Ichigo is so desperately trying to inhale. His instincts urge him in every direction and blowing out the candles, hiding under a bed, it makes sense now. He can finally empathize with the fight or flight reaction of these creatures. "And you and I are going to make a deal."
"Why would I..." He can't finish his question, Grimmjow places his wrist just below his nose.
"You're going to drink from me, and in exchange you're going to help me take back the throne from your precious Board of Directors."
Veins run under his skin as blue and enticing as the man's bedraggled hair, and Ichigo is delirious. He's starving.
He wants and wants and wants —
"Say yes," Grimmjow breathes into his ear, pressing himself and his heat and all that flowing, singing blood against his chapped lips. "Help me win. Make it a blood oath."
Ichigo remembers the bell above the door, the dainty chime that had sounded like a funeral announcement. He hadn't known who it was for. Ten minutes ago he was ignorant to whose name the grave would read.
Grimmjow's free hand grips his hip, fingers finding the bare skin the ribbons couldn't hide. "Say it," he repeats. A command, not a plea.
His eyes are clear, his limbs unshakable.
Ichigo finds himself sinking deeper than his fangs can penetrate, and with a mouth full of the most delicious meal he's ever had, says, " Yes ."
The bell doesn't toll a second time, but Grimmjow's laugh seals his fate all the same.